


im ascheregen

by honeydowo



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explosions, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Memories, Memory Loss, Other, POV Second Person, no beta we die like wilbur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:00:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27764149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeydowo/pseuds/honeydowo
Summary: on what it means to be nothing at all (or, the significance of unimportance)----Wilbur embraces death like an old friend.
Relationships: platonic relationships only
Kudos: 24





	im ascheregen

You embrace death like an old friend.

\---

You're not quite a corporeal thing, not quite here nor there, and you think that you haven't always been that way.  
Something in you recoils at the thought, and you think that you're scared - scared in a way only a ghost can be, neither here nor there or anything really, just the remembrance of emotion.

  
But whatever does that mean, to be scared? Is it long tendrils of shaking horror gripping your heart so tight you cannot hear it's beating over the blood pouring from your useless, deceptive lips?

  
Is it the ground opening up in a horrid, twisting smile wanting to devour as much as you wished to be free?

  
Is it your brother's wooden sword pointed at your neck with the deceptive motion of cutting quivering in his wrist?

  
It might just be nothing at all.  
It might just be everything.

  
You think that maybe, if you were to remember there would be a difference - maybe a defining or becoming or realisation of what that means, to remember; to be alive, on a deeper level.  
But the shape of it escapes you. Buries itself in the twisting corridors of being unmade and sinks to the molten ground of a drying ocean.  
There's a great desolation around you, a crater where there should be life-

  
- _or life where there should be a crater,_ some dark hidden part of you supplies-

  
and your shirt is stained with an impossible blood; red and burgundy and black drying agains your not-skin and sealed, aching bleeding wound.

  
Your father carries the sword heavily.  
The smatter of blood on it is shaped like the dream of paint strokes produced by an artist's shaking hand, desperately fighting against exhaustion.

  
It doesn't scare you ( _yet. anymore? is time even real in this place?)_  
  
You wander  
the desolation  
some other  
version  
of you( _?)_  
  
craved.  
  
And somewhere, your brother curls his perfect, long hair into the mockery of a curtain - the last scene has passed, the stage lies abadoned.  
  
 _The End._  
  
He does not let himself grieve, for his play has not yet come to pass.  
  
Something   
  
d  
e

e  
p  
  
in your  
mind  
remembers  
red fractals  
blooming  
like  
flowers towards   
the sky.  
  
  
And somewhere, your brother sharpens his sword and curses your existence and grieves for you with such an aching emptiness it echoes back into your non-existence.  
  
They look  
at you  
with despair.  
And  
you wonder  
what you  
  
must  
have  
done.  
  
  
  
And somewhere in between existing and not, just left of reality and harshly banished from death, you decide to forget.  
  
And that deciscion lights up your eyes in perfect technicolor .  
  
\---  
  
 _You finally got your escape,_ says your younger self, with his long coat and high collar and empty eyes.  
  
You wonder if he's right.  
  
\---  
  
There's a certain sharpness to knowing that you suddenly do not matter anymore.  
It doesn't quite make sense (because there's still the tug of-) (and they look at you with such despondency) (- _something_ inside you, like-) (as if there was something you didn't know) (-shrapnel buried inside your heart.)  
  
What difference does it make?  
  
You are, still. You exist.

  
(Somewhere far off, where there should be nothing at all.)  
  
You hold your breath until you forget how to breathe and as if through a microscope finally sharpening its quality, see the scale of everything and nothing (and war and betrayal and love and loss.)  
See your place as an infinitesimal in-  
  
Every _thing_ _ **?**_  
  
If there's even such thing, because when everything is nothing how is one to describe something?  
The ghost of a touch sends you spiralling into non-existence.  
  
You remember-  
  
 _Well._

  
(A day on the beach where everyone is laughing-)  
  
(A wooden sword cracking through the air with a static burst-)  
  
(-and they look just so happy, don't they?)  
  
(-it hits the grass beside your head with the impression of sound, more colour than noise.)  
  
(There's someone else there-)  
  
(Her dress flows and flows like endless streams of liberation, like water-)  
  
(He has big, round, innocent eyes tainted the deepest hint of blue-)  
  
(-and when she smiles it's with the vigour of a tsunami, leaving nothing but wreckage-)  
  
(-he follows you even into war, your son, and you love him-)  
  
(-your dad, isn't it? The same blonde hair in matted curls-)  
  
(---and they're all, all gone.)  
  
  
Being dead is being nothing.  
Being nothing means being everything.  
  
The crater in the middle of your country hollows out your chest with the faintest hint of victory.  
  
  
\---  
  
You are nothing. You are nothing. You are nothing and the sky is so vast and immeasurable and you are nothing at all.  
  
What is there left to say?  
  
You sink into the earth with a beautiful sense of belonging.  
  
\---  
  
Somewhere, the sky is set alight by lanterns of grief.  
  
Somewhere, you watch them rise into the heavens and wonder who they could be for.  
  
Somewhere, your family breaks apart.  
  
\---  
  
You watch yourself lean over the edge - right where cold stone meets blackened ash, the memory of something existing once blown away with the single flick of a wrist.  
But you aren't him as much as you have become something else - no less the past version of yourself than the future one. Present one maybe, if you are a person at all.  
  
"It's beautiful", you say from where the past edges against the corner of your vision.  
This you looks older, translucent, like an old picture fraying at the edges - the television crackling between static and discordant noise without any intent.  
  
The death of a million stars reflects in your old eyes.  
  
You, the present you, looks out over the waste and fails to see the beauty in it.  
  
The other you looks disappointed. His long coat doesn't catch on the sharp, tainted rocks when he leans on them -just a little too casual, too close to falling, like an old spring wound too tightly- and watches you.  
  
You wander what the past could think of you, now. Now that you are alone, bereft of memories or purpose, merely stumbling and trying to catch yourself when the fall inevitably comes.  
  
(And somehow, you think that that's always how you've been.)

  
Your old, blackened fingertips map your new outline into the rock accusingly. You know you do not have them, and wonder.  
  
"You know", the past sighs defiantly, "I would've thought you would at least remember."  
  
 _Remember what?,_ your mind screams, yet you find yourself tongue tied - unable to think inbetween the static, bouncing colours of a long-dead life before you.  
  
You smile, a million years away and mutter a single word:  
  
"Abso  
lution."  
  
And with the single flicker of a wrist, the world ends in a cacaphony of reds and oranges.  
  
\---  
  
You remember.  
  
(In fragments and fractals and colours that cannot be seen but only felt.)

\---

And-  
  
\---

-you make it up.  
  
\---  
  
Tommy cries when he sees you.  
You don't think he has ever cried so openly in front of you - not _before_ anyways, and his tears reflect the ocean in their depth.  
Someday, you will move on.  
Someday Tommy will smile at his friends and turn his back to the ruins you left behind.  
For now, you place your not-quite-real hand on his shoulder, and let the sadness spiral into the void of your heart.  
  
\---  
  
You follow Techno into the depths of ravines and hellscapes of your own creation until he points a sword at you with a shaking hand.  
From somewhere, a wooden sword appears in yours.  
  
Afterwards, you laugh and laugh and laugh and Techno joins in until you both feel breathless and free and loved.  
  
You hand him your wooden sword, and Techno looks at you with a peace in his eyes you've never seen before.  
  
It's quiet.  
  
Peaceful.  
  
A single loving memory amongst the storm.  
  
\---  
  
Phil is...  
Devastated.  
  
He doesn't know what to say when he sees you, the gaping wound in your bleeding chest and the hope in your eyes and-  
  
His wings encompass you fully.  
  
And when his tears start to fall, you're ready to wipe them away.  
  
\---  
  
Fundy, to you, has always felt like a symphony - a great, layered, faceted thing one cannot describe for its nondescriptive aspect define it as much as the final crescendo before it ends.  
Yet you have always left his symphony unfinished.  
You know you cannot fix the abandonment, the neglect, the years of distance and coldness locking your heart in place.  
But you sign the adoption form hopefully placed on his chest, and marvel at his joy when life starts turning more hopeful.  
  
\---  
  
And then?  
  
\---  
You  
f  
a  
d  
e  
  
away.

**Author's Note:**

> [RINGS BELL] 
> 
> GHOSTBUR CONTENT! GHOSTBUR CONTENT!  
> this incomprehensible as fuck so uhm... i'm sorry?  
> also not beta read but i'll probably go back to fix mistakes later lol 
> 
> LEAVE KUDOS N COMMENT I NEED THE VALIDATION‼


End file.
